Occupation
by Sresla
Summary: The crushing poverty of the Denerim Alienage is kept at bay by one hard working family of elves. Has their tireless work ethic earned them a change in circumstance?


**Describe an item of clothing you wear now that someday your son or daughter will want to own. What is it, and why will your child want to wear it in twenty years?**

The stench of the Alienage was a scent that could be tasted in the mouth: rotten fish and salt from the Amaranthine Ocean mixed with the sewage and refuse which swept or trickled from the human dwellings just beyond the high walls ringing the elven enclosure. Here, dilapidated buildings served as tenement houses, ringed by shacks which sprouted around them like mushrooms on a rotten log. These were lopsided creations, built by people with more need than skill and it sometimes only took a mild winter storm to collapse the fragile structures in the same way a strong breath destroys a balanced house of playing cards. The summertime threat was the persistent smell and illness brought by pestilence.

A hot breeze carried this mélange of scents through a gap in the boards, the missing plank doubling as the tiny lean-to's window and narrow door. Inside, the small room was crisscrossed with ropes hung with clothes: pants topmost, then a row for shirts and the lowest to the ground draped with smallclothes. The weight caused the walls to bow inward and creak, foreboding eventual collapse. Wedged into a corner, so it seemed more like the dripping laundry was the shack's proper occupants, were two elves.

The woman stood at a basin, bent over her work, scraping the shirt she washed now up and down a ridged board, smoothed for the purpose. The basket at her feet was nearly empty, containing a few shapeless dark lumps weakly illuminated by the room's only light source, a single lamped candle. It leaked the scent of tallow and mixed with the humors blowing in from the rest of the Alienage. Voices too, could be heard, but indistinct and muffled, as if everyone spoke in whispers.

"Don't stop!" the woman said abruptly, stopping her washing. "I'm nearly done."

The man, who had been whistling a spry tune moments before, replied, "Suhalia, dearest, my mouth is so dry, your wash water is starting to look good." He was seated on a small box, next to the candle, with a pair of pants in his lap. His protest was half-hearted; he obliged his wife's request and, taking back up his needle, began to hum instead as he worked on repairing a split seam in the pants' leg. The woman swayed her hips to the melody, the up and down of her arms keeping time with the song.

When she finished washing and everything was hung, she came and sat at the man's feet. She pulled a basket, which had been shoved to the side, next to her and began to sort the garments, examining them for tears or obvious wear, separating the contents as she folded each piece into neat piles.

"Nearly done, love?" she asked.

When she received no answer, the man stamped his foot against the floor. It took twice more before the boy, laying on his stomach under the dripping laundry, turned his head around to look at his parents. It was difficult to tell his age in the dim candlelight. His hair was cut short, except for a longer portion in front that stuck up defiantly like a spiky, blond cockscomb. He was shirtless and his back wet from the water falling from above, wearing pants cut off at the knees that were too large and hung from his wiry body like a scarecrow's castoffs. A length of rope held them up around his narrow hips.

"Show us, Sandor," the man prompted.

It took the boy another minute to respond to the request. He looked back around and reached for something on the floor, turned back and held it up until his father nodded. "Back to it, if you're not finished." Although he didn't acknowledge his father's missive, whatever task he'd been set to made the young man smile, although not broadly – more a quirk upward at the corners of his mouth – and he returned to what he'd been doing.

His mother shifted where she sat and her husband stopped his work to place a hand on her shoulder. "When he's ready," the man said. His tone held a familiar cadence, implying a phrase spoken many times and said by someone who knew he was doomed to repeat it. "Trust in the Maker's plan."

The boy never spoke. Not a cry when he was born and not a word since. His parents ignored the cruel comments made just within earshot about him, labelling him dimwitted by the other elves in the Alienage. Privately, his mother believed herself cursed to have birthed him, when even the sickliest of elven children were still treated as a blessing. The thought of him occasionally sent her into deep despair, and she would cry for hours, held tightly by her husband, although she would say aloud it was in fear for his future. His father was just the opposite. He appreciated his son's amiable obedience and didn't view his lack of speech as an impediment. He also saw how the boy watched, almost studied, the people and things around him. It was not with a vacant, empty-eyed stare. He firmly believed what he told his wife and felt that when his son did speak, there would be a great many people who would be surprised by what he said.

"We'll send for someone far away–"

"Further than Leften?"

"Leften. Or Calenhad's Brook, where they won't have heard about…" It was a moment before she continued. "She'll have employment in the family; Oswall has work enough and we might persuade him to part with seven coppers if we work week through. He takes after you, with his clever hands, and you two can sew while his new bride and I do the washing. She'll see his handsome face and be willing, whatever else there may be."

"Like you were, with me?"

"Oh Kel," her voice was wistful, "I peeked through a knothole. We were all taking turns as soon as we heard the cart arrived. I couldn't take my eyes off you. You were meant for me, not that natty Melossa Briggs who thought she was so much better than the rest of us because her wedding dress was white as lamb's wool."

"You're having me on. There wasn't a single girl there in a dress like that."

"Of course not. You know these roads. She took an unfortunate spill and had to go back home to change her clothes. She did get married, eventually. They moved to Amaranthine. Couldn't bear to see every day what she'd lost, I suppose."

"Susu, you are the very devil. You've never told me that story before."

"Yes, well," she said, nestling against her husband's leg. "A wife needs her secrets."

They continued their quiet tasks for a while, with the soft rustling of cloth the only sound in the room. Eventually, the man said, "Do you think Oswall might let us take a bit of lace to dress the cuffs of my suit as payment, if we stretched it out over a few months? It'd look very fine on him, I think. The girls would take him for a prince and be fighting over him like wet cats."

"And hide the fact that your son is taller than you? Will it even fit him?" She bit her lower lip. "We'll need to start planning now. Ask him when he's in a good mood."

"Aye."

"We'll manage things until it's paid for. It's a good plan. And if…" her voice trailed off.

"We'll find someone who talks enough for both of them." He reached down and gave the back of his wife's neck a squeeze.

When the woman finished her folding, she leaned more heavily against her husband. Her breathing eventually settled into a regular pattern and the man knew she had fallen asleep. He continued to work as the lamp grew dimmer. Occasionally, he'd shift to stretch, being careful not to move his legs, before going back to the sewing.

The light was so faint he was squinting when a shuffling sound made the man look up. He son was getting to his feet, keeping his back bowed so as to not disturb the drying clothes. He nudged his wife with his knee and felt her shake herself awake. "All done?"

"Sandor is. Let's see what we have."

Their son came over, arms full, and the woman lifted the now empty basket. Dozens of small spools spilled down with wooden clicks and clacks as they knocked against one another. The women picked up one to examine it, then another. Her laughter was joyous. "Oh, I don't think he knew what he was giving us this time with those odds and ends, Kel. We'll be able to trade on these for a week or two, at the very least!"

Each of the hand-carved spools had carefully cut notches at the top and bottom. Wound around them were bits of thread, some with only a few separated spirals, others thickly wound turning them into bright spots of color: blue, red, green, brown and black.

His father looked up and caught his son's eye. "Easy enough to see them as a useless tangle. But we knew better, didn't we, boy?" The young man returned his father's wide grin with a faint smile that touched only his eyes and the corners of his mouth, just as before. "It's late. To bed with you now. You're to be with Mistress Cillo tomorrow," his father instructed. "She'll have lunch for you, if you do the chores proper, as you're told. Mind her and only her until six bells, then come straight home and wait for us."

There were no cots in the small room; not even a pile of straw. Responding to his father's command, the boy retreated to a corner and lay down, his arm cushioning his head, his back to his parents.

The two adults continued to work; their day was not yet finished. The woman now sorted the remnants while her husband sewed. The tiny sounds she made – clicks of the tongue, a drawn out 'hmm' that buzzed her lips – told the story of the threads' future distribution.

The sudden silence said more than the sound and the man noticed the difference. "What is it?"

"Gold," his wife whispered, reverently. "He's found us gold."

Thicker than thread, it bulged around the wood, making it look like a fat, glittering bumblebee in the woman's hand. He reached out to touch it, but his wife admonished, "Don't! What if it came from the robe of a Brother or Sister?" They both continued to stare, until the woman said, "Do you know what this means?"

"Do I? Do I!" The man swept the woman's hands in his own, bringing them together and planting a kiss on her fingertips, the treasure held between them. "I'll see the Elder in the morning. He'll know who we can talk to." This tiny jewel of a find implied more wealth than either of the two elves had seen in their lifetimes. His wife murmured the possibilities under her breath, while the man set his sewing aside. "This needs sleeping on. I'll be worthless for work until this is settled."

"Where should we put it?"

They decided on their box with the broken lock; it was the most secure place the elves had. Only a desperate thief would think the shack contained anything worth stealing, but they still secreted it in with their old wedding clothes, buried among other odds and ends whose only value was sentimental.

The man, Keluin, did not think he would be able to sleep, even as the couple settled into their customary spot across the room from their son. The space provided the family with an illusion of privacy, and the excitement proved a powerful aphrodisiac for the couple. They made love, and afterward, as his wife slept, the elf turned his head and watched the flow of shadows on the floorboards through the makeshift door. They looked oily, and seemed to move of their own accord rather than fall straight and steady in the dim moonlight. The motion was slow and hypnotic, and made his eyelids heavy.

A sudden thought brought him back from the brink of sleep and his arms tensed around the woman, who roused from the pressure of his grip. "What? What is it?" Her voice octaved into an alarmed whisper, "Kel, you're hurting me."

He released his wife, who sat up, while he rose and went to the box, digging through it, tossing the box's contents onto the floor until he found the spool by feel. "It's a test," he hissed at the woman over his shoulder, "to see if we're honest. Make sure we're trustworthy. Gold? For us? Shem's playing us for fools."

He couldn't see his wife's face clearly, but the whites of her eyes stood out in the darkness, as she followed his line of thought. "No, it was an accident, an oversight, and deserved after everything else. He's sold us these remnants before. He can't have known." She didn't sound certain, though.

"If he thought them worthless, he wouldn't take from our wages. He knows we profit but not how." He straightened up, the spool held tightly in his fist. "We'll give them to him tomorrow. All of them."

Her man's fear was infectious and the protest weaker still. "We can't! Without them, we can't–"

He stepped back over to her, forestalling her next words as he knelt back down in front of her. "I've said what we're doing. Do you think the Elder will protect us, lie for us? Even if we're not taken for thieves, it only takes a wrong word while in his earshot from Elmrya or Folmer or any of the others about our change in circumstance. We'll not even have copper then. Think, Suhalia." He placed his free hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. "Would you risk all?" His wife stared back at him. "You know I'm right. Think it through."

She reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, speaking into his shoulder. "Yes, of course. Yes. I was blinded–"

"Hush now." He held her in his embrace for a moment more, then eased down next to her, coaxing her to lie back. He could feel her trembling and sought to soothe her by stroking her hair, even though his own heart still pounded. It was hours before the couple slept, the woman finding peace before the man, and he finally surrendered to exhaustion. His last conscious thought was an uncharitable one, the first one he'd ever had about his son, murmured aloud and forgotten by morning. "All you bring, boy, is trouble…"

* * *

Author's Note: You know those prompts I said I'd be faster on? Hmm. I am not sure what sort of structure I need to put in place that will allow me to walk away from things that are supposed to be "short" and potentially not very stressful. Not that this was stressful. Writing about any of my characters is never stressful, but I just never feel satisfied. The other sticking point for me was that I tried a different point of view than I normally use (sort of third person omniscient but I'm not convinced I got it right), but I guess it doesn't hurt to try something new.

This is a very early glimpse into Sandor's life, before he's taken by the Templars and well before he becomes a Gray Warden. His parents do get a mention well into the main POB storyline when the Wardens return to Denerim, post-Alienage quest. Let's just say that his exit wasn't one that was forgotten and it's lucky that no one recognizes the man he becomes.

The universe belongs to Bioware, and the Surana family (turns out I have an affinity for specific names) to me.

Sandor and I thank you for taking the time to read this story. If you're so inclined, please feel free to review; a critique is as valued as praise.


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